match with idiots
by Shiluette
Summary: Ryoma plays as a Hyotei regular, and some people aren't too happy about it. Installment from my Hyotei! Ryoma chaptered fic. pre-Atoryo.


A/N: Another piece from Hyotei! Ryoma installment. Chapter piece coming up soon-ish.

/

His opponent was a leering lanky, the type who huddles in shadowed alleyways and grovels to bigger and harsher boys while boasting of false bravado. Or perhaps he is not; perhaps his opponent's sneering face was a facade and secretly he may go home to his dog and pet him languidly and gently. Ryoma doesn't fucking care, he only wants an easy game. As soon as he thinks that, he is momentarily taken aback, at how vicious his mind is whirling, how easily his words have been adopted to the vile sneering so familiar to his current teammates. He is uneasy, or: he supposes he should be. He should not be wishing for the match to be so easily conquered. He should not bask in the aggressive cheers of his school and the blue colors breezing above him.

Such thoughts are soon dismissed, however, when his opponent does even bother to shake Ryoma's hand, an ugly sneer engulfing the equally obnoxious face.

"Turncoat."

Ryoma doesn't even start at that remark, merely raises an eyebrow. He does not retract his hand away too quickly though; he lets it hanging there, long enough for the crowd to see, to take in the opponent's poor sportsmanship, and the crowd stiffens, rallies with boos and louder cheers, his name a warring cry.

"Echizen!Echizen!Echizen!"

He can't help but grin; to his opponent, his face may only be mocking (and truth to be told, that wasn't much far off the mark), but Ryoma was merely recalling back to Atobe's words the night before.

 _You'll soon get used to the cheers. Perhaps you might even relish it. After all_ -and here Atobe had scrutinized him, his eyes not unkind and his lips curved into a humorous, ironic smirk, _We're more alike than you realize. Terrible revelation on my part, I should say._

Those are the last rationale words that Ryoma thinks, as he bounced the ball against the clay court, his mind a frenzy, his opponent across the court, and the loud cheers ringing in his ears. It is the only world he senses.

He serves and the opponent cannot return it. The cheering grows and the opponent's face falters. Across the net, the face is pale at the sheer speed of the ball.

Serve. Serve. Serve.

"Echizen, 1-0!"

He is invincible, it's almost boring. He wishes that he did not have to play in the regionals. Damn Monkey King, he thinks lazily, I need a better debutant match than this.

The opponent, out of sheer will or luck, returns the next ball, and they begin a rally. Even this is tedious: the ball is too slow and straight, he wants to add a curve-ball. So he does-he lets his right hand flick, the ball at his whim, and his opponent dances madly.

"Shit!"

The referee whistles sharply and the crowd goes wild.

They change courts. His opponent is red and sweaty; as he passes, he snarls and bares his teeth.

"I am going to crush you," he promises in a low and angry voice. Ryoma finds that hilarious.

Atobe sees the exchange as he throws him a towel. Ryoma catches it halfheartedly.

"Trouble?" he inquires. Ryoma wipes himself off and shrugs.

"Nothing I can't handle."

"Of course not." Atobe is all too amused for someone who is watching an one-sided shitshow, Ryoma notes. "Do hurry up with the match, then; the sun is unbearable."

"You didn't have to come watch," Ryoma points out a little sourly. "Or better yet, you didn't _have_ to let me play."

Atobe smirks; his face is infuriating. "What's the fun in that?" he drawls, his eyes full of dark mirth. "I'm allowed to show off my new regular, aren't I?"

"Funny," Ryoma bites out, and throws the towel back at Atobe with more vigor than necessary; Atobe however, catches it neatly. The match resumes again.

The next serve, his opponent serves a weak volley; Ryoma tosses it back easily. He should finish it, he knows. He should make it a quick love game. But he can't help but tease, his swings erratic, fake, mocking shots. He is vile as the rest of them, he thinks, almost bemused.

The insult that had been whispered to him harshly now takes on a new octave, a shout that rings across the courts and the cheers momentarily freeze.

"Fucking traitor!"

The ball bounces across his opponent's net ( _what is his name?_ Ryoma thinks, irritated, _Does it even matter anymore?_ ) and that face is livid, his mouth open from his accusation. Atobe hears, and from where he stands, he sees Atobe's eyes narrow, traces of his earlier amusement gone. He looks disgusted.

But again, that's perhaps a trick of the light, because the next instant, Atobe snaps his fingers at the silence and the crowd resumes his name again, albeit more hesitantly. The ball is tossed and served; Ryoma returns it with a more powerful blow and the racket falls out of the opponent's hands. The cheers are relieved with its loudness.

Ryoma grins. Over the noise, he shouts, "You _do_ know that I'm not a power player, don't you?"

It's time to finish the game, and finish it with a flourish Ryoma does, and his hit after the next are all powerful smashes, ones that leaves his wrist throbbing and his blood pounding. His opponent is left gasping and clutching his arm.

"Game, Hyotei Echizen! Six games to zero!"

It is only when he approaches Atobe and Atobe raises an eyebrow at him that Ryoma notices his wrist hurts. He glances down and his hand is forming a red welt.

"You went hard for a lousy player," Atobe comments mildly. Ryoma doesn't know Atobe enough to know whether that was a rebuke or not. He settles with a shrug. "It's my right hand," he says. "I'll live."

Atobe stands up from the bench. "Will you now," he says, smirking. It wasn't a rebuke, then, but before Ryoma could answer back with a jibe of his own, Atobe looks beyond Ryoma and his smirk fades.

"Revolting behavior you showed out there," Atobe says flatly, and Ryoma turns around. His opponent, lost and panting, stands behind them, his eyes ablaze. 'I could file for a discretionary behavior on the Committee, you realize."

His opponent does not react to that threat, but stares down at Ryoma. "You'll lose to Rikkai anyway," he sneers, "I've seen your matches. Who do you think you are, waltzing between fancy schools like some cockhead piece of shit? You'll get crushed soon enough."

Before Ryoma could reply to that bizarre and very cartoonish remark, his opponent slinks away, and he is soon lost in the oncoming cheers and crowd of Hyotei non-regulars.

"Echizen! Echizen! Echizen!"

Atobe's face is dark when Ryoma turns to look at him. Their eyes meet; Ryoma his startled to find that the disgust he had thought he saw earlier wasn't a trick of light.

"He's a fool," Atobe says, quiet amongst the cheering crowd, "But there are going to many of them soon enough. Unfortunately."

Ryoma shrugs and taps the brim of his cap. "Don't mind," he says cheerfully, "He's just a sore loser. There's a lot of them."

"I see you're taking this all in good stride," Atobe notes dryly.

"It's not the first time I heard them. Besides," Ryoma feels compelled to add, "He's not completely off the mark."

"Oh? Are we going to engage in the logics of a lunatic now?" Atobe's disgust and anger is fickle, they come and go with one remark and one expression from Ryoma (he doesn't know what to glean from that observation). Amusement back on his face, Atobe snaps his fingers and the milling crowd chants louder as they make their staggering exit.

"I meant in the broadest sense," Ryoma amends. He looks around and scowls a little. "Also, this wasn't really necessary. Like he said, this isn't even Rikkai."

"You don't listen to me, do you, Echizen," Atobe says languidly, hand reaching up to flick back Ryoma's cap brim, "This is your debuntant match. Of course it's not over the top."

Ryoma rolls his eyes. "And like I said-"

"I like to show off my star players," Atobe cuts in airily, "Did I not also mention that?"

Ryoma doesn't know what to say to that. He settles with a "che" and walks forward. Atobe falls in step besides him, and Ryoma can feel his amusement radiating. It is strangely comforting, especially Atobe's last remark. "And don't degrade your intelligence by accepting the rubbish people tend to say. I worry for your psychological state."

"Shut up, captain," Ryoma says and smiles sweetly when Atobe throws him a look.


End file.
